Dangling From The Wisdom Branch

the war child transformed into a crafty and canny maiden, ditching the prehistoric programming, I convert the middle agers wearing my fiery scarlet dress, hanging inverted from the prohibition-tree of the speak-easy, tended by my steadfast imperial sentry, the Gwybod.

Crown of rubies tumbling down, running the jewels that belonged to penny royalty. Lucent dilithium crystals from the mothership, commandeered when I pierced the canopy, climbed the tree tip. the zenith of my highbrow trip

my pitchfork ablaze, a trident of ignominy lettering the hides of those who sully our pride and ruin our shimmering smiles. Bunions and broken toes, stepping on our gowns, stealing our favourite nouns, and stolid priests, denying our deceased entrance into Valhalla

Iroquois warrior throat singing a pre-emptive strike. a call to arms against the ghost faces and new Reich. my resistance was futile, for tonight I join their fight. chipped my teeth from gnashing bones I should pick, stick it into the soft flesh of the boujie pricks

pig bellies roasting on an open fire. This is the end of all our desire. Can you smell what’s cooking in the stratus clouds? breakdowns, and reformation, compensation and reconciliation emanating from my tragically hip lair, buzzing in the air

where wolfs bane grows in my hair. Spider plants and vines, experiments for a restless mind, perpetual beats. Kenwood marches on thirty years strong. Equalizer glowing from dusk till dawn, invoking images of throngs and mosh pits jammed into the tape deck. Ticking the time bombs out my stereo speakers, generating the internal atmosphere.

Clock strikes 12:02 inside that excommunicated spaceship, secular but sacred. My invited guests, unable to dance but floating just the same, at the after-party for the reposed and the latent. the lonely solitaire, and the pretty vacant. Clinging to one another for comfort as wraiths in warbirds approach. We are all too enamoured with our trauma to take note.

Capitalizing on our bruises and moods, our strawberry wounds. Our stigmata of stigma become targets for Con-men as The Flim-Flam Family promise everlasting peace and continuous existenz. A serialized loop of prevarications, pretense, and pretending.

But suspense looms in the ready room, where fragmented tunes consume me. Conducted by cunning wordsmiths who disavow abuse, pay their dues, and wear shades and hues all along the frequency spectrum

"Put on your dancing shoes, and follow our lead, bend through broken prisms and bleed."

I peer out the large aperture from the battle bridge of my hijacked rocket. Opaque plastic conceals the view. Peel it off and observe the news. Start smashing igneous rock into iron pans, celebrate the arrival of my holy lands. the spewing magma of my terra-forming clears the vision but bloodies my hands

building rainbows in the dark, for sable souls. Gothic cathedrals on hamburger hill. Tenebrous tabernacle witnessed from Hadley-rille. Choirs for the damned and the emotionally raw. even the lost souls of common law, unyielding to our demands for equality but twisting to the fallacies of obtuse and mortal men

Trill for the children buried under schools during the sixties scoop. Red Cardinal tweets his taunting tirades from his polluted pulpit of political control. manufacturing vicious mind tricks to wit us out of our hard-earned money. All those born-to-enders and sycophants, the roundheads, and their bitches. Cauldrons and hisses. Stir up the shit, take a few hits.

Eyes of newt and lawyers’ breath. Inhale the effervescence. Embolism in your minds sight, blowing out all the crustations of shut-eye. This will not be tidy, it will not be neat. But man! It will carry a beat.

Sever the feet of the walking dead, they have not heard me yet. I will not march around on my kneecaps; I kneel for no monotonous man. I will not mouth the words to his archaic orison, bleaching out my horizon. Eerie incantations of anarchy, matricide, infanticide, and genocide

untutored imbeciles baking their banana peels in convection ovens, hoping for cheap thrills and extreme highs. the methamphetamine limelight

Well, all right! I have another cookbook for you; The New Testament, or The Holy Bible II. Working titles for the pew

Parental advisory ensued. Notoriety and fame sold for 10-minute interviews on the Canadian Broadcast Corporation. Garrulous, glamourous rants on the finer points of murder, tyranny, the Inquisition, sedition, heresy, and perdition

do not forget to fuse your Manic psalms and my head. Alchemy turning lead into alloy, Bonding the remnants of my longing and the open wounds that cannot heal. Plaster-casts of metals and steel, my ultra-vivid rumblings skipping over frozen oceans like a stone, singing for absolution in the frigid depths. Sink holes in Schumacher have all my fault lines exposed. Scale the water tower and open the valves, flood the whole town, let it drown. I have turned back to solid ground

I beseech with my banshee screech, condemned souls of Apollo, Hathor, and The Muses. Come to me, as you are, if the sky is empty, meet me atop Hollinger's open pit running through the main thoroughfare. Flooding Algonquin streets. Seagulls shriek

"look down the centre of a maelstrom and speak to the abyss. Cauterize your bliss"

Tell that fork tongued, fake cloth wearing heretic in his chambers, above the Van Gogh, and papal papers, he is not to stare me directly in the eye of my tempest. He has not earned my respect.

He can torture my spirit to release my truth, I will tell that bishop a roman story that is no longer relevant, full of faded glory considering those priests irradicated the polytheists, atheists, artists, and mages, renamed the gods and burned the books. Any philosophy and myth that survived the flames, were regurgitated and the rulers who sat upon usurped thrones are forever illegitimatized. I was not baptized, not born guilty. Need no confessional, not living filthy.

Yes, I am meaning to preach, throwing fire and brimstone into the faces of the onlookers. Their foggy minds, breached. Averting the gazes of non-believers, I ignore the abuse from the bottom feeders swimming with the catfish

I will keep the cursing to a reasonable amount, would not want to be misunderstood, or turn a homophobe into a rainbow trout

The atomic aged men in the choir, the papal pages and esquires, heeded not the warning. The omens from the brackish waters, lying eyes, did not watch the skies for something leviathan. I tried to alert them, but those close-minded fiends only mocked my intellect, claimed the earth is flat, as they flew around the globe, 38,000 feet in the air, on a Lear, with Jeffrey Epstein, Josh Duggar, and Prince Andrew. Deciding which panel of the tryptic of sickness, will become the next pope of their trade, selected by a silent deity. Nothing to say.

Shut your Apoc-o-Lips, I hear The Creator. His wings are flapping, slicing through the turbulent air. He is laughing with a blissful frenzy, or is it a holy blood lust, from Gen-Z. Perilous winds encapsulate me, as I smile and swallow the sacrament.

I once suffered premonitions a lifetime ago, when I was sure of myself but not of anything else. I get the spirit but lose the feeling
 
Languishing in a long-lost realm, King Arthur’s court of compatriots. Sword released by the struggle, stabbed in the back by premature awakenings. I have been waiting at this juncture. I am only stuck in a wicked rat race, interposed between earth and heaven, sand and water, where all good things come to an end, begin again. write my name in the doomsday book. I was here and I spoke, to the creator, to the writer, to the unknowing fool

Indolently stitching my despair, into art and craft. I made a wallet for your designer jean pocket, out of the skin of dotard ass. Fold it up. Shove it in your crack, sit on it, clap back.

For eons, lightyears hurtling through space, I have consumed your words. I have memorized the polaroids, the soundbites, I have absorbed by osmosis, the guitars, drums, keys, and trumpets. The exclusive ensemble created for the final battle. You versus us, us versus the congregation of despotism. From despair to where? Despondency? Melancholy? All our fates have aligned, giving chance for avenging the lost, the fallen and the still sleeping, before the earth ceases it is dry heaving and suffers a full collapse. Here is my badge, a torn band patch, pinned to my lapel. A riot girl hijacks an idea from Zeus's forehead. names it Autonomy, daylight for the living dead.

There’s a strange trick baked into modern culture: we’re taught to distrust the people who start things. Not the oligarchs. Not the dynastic families. Not the inherited wealth. Not the shadow brokers who never appear on camera. No — we’re told to hate the founder, the CEO, the person who actually builds something. It’s one of the most effective psychological operations of the last century. Because if the working class ever realized that a CEO is just a person with a dream and the stubbornness to try, the entire hierarchy would collapse. 1. The CEO as Villain: A Manufactured Archetype Somewhere along the line, “CEO” stopped meaning the person who started a thing and became shorthand for the villain of the story. It’s convenient. It keeps the public angry at the wrong people. It keeps the spotlight off the real power brokers. It keeps the proletariat from imagining themselves as leaders. If you believe all CEOs are corrupt, greedy, and born into power, then you’ll never try to become one. You’ll never start your own studio. You’ll never build your own world. You’ll never step into sovereignty. You’ll stay in your lane. And that’s exactly what the system wants. 2. The Reality: Most Founders Are Just People With Guts Strip away the propaganda and you find something embarrassingly simple: Most founders are ordinary people who got tired of waiting for permission. They’re not aristocrats. They’re not elites. They’re not born into power. They’re: - dreamers - tinkerers - weirdos - obsessives - problem‑solvers - people who want to make something better than what they were handed They start businesses because they see a gap. They create jobs because they want to build something sustainable. They take risks because no one else will. They’re not trying to dominate the world. They’re trying to contribute to it. But that narrative doesn’t serve the people who profit from stagnation. 3. Why the System Needs You to Stay Small A creative working class is dangerous. A self‑employed working class is uncontrollable. A founder‑class emerging from the proletariat is revolutionary. So the system does what it always does when ordinary people get too close to power: It pathologizes the role. It turns “CEO” into a slur. It turns “entrepreneur” into a punchline. It turns “founder” into a caricature of greed. Because if you believe leadership is inherently corrupt, you’ll never claim it. You’ll never build your own studio. You’ll never hire your own team. You’ll never create your own economy. You’ll stay a consumer instead of a creator. A worker instead of a builder. A follower instead of a founder. And the kings stay kings. 4. The Suppression of Creative Urge The most dangerous thing a human can do is create. Creation is agency. Creation is rebellion. Creation is self‑authorship. So the system dulls the creative impulse: - standardized schooling - corporate career ladders - credential gatekeeping - fear of failure - fear of ambition - fear of being “too much” They don’t want the proletariat to become professional. They want the proletariat to remain predictable. Because a creative worker becomes a founder. A founder becomes a leader. A leader becomes a threat. 5. The Truth They Don’t Want You to See The line between “worker” and “CEO” is thinner than they want you to believe. It’s not a bloodline. It’s not a secret club. It’s not a divine right. It’s a decision. A moment of audacity. A refusal to stay small. A willingness to try. The people who profit from the system as‑is don’t fear the CEOs they already control. They fear the ones they can’t control — the ones who rise from the working class, from small towns, from basements, from bedrooms, from nothing. They fear the founders who remember where they came from. They fear the leaders who don’t owe them anything. They fear the creatives who build their own worlds instead of renting space in someone else’s. They fear you.

The Right to Choose: Why AI Belongs in Art, Learning, and the Future

The singularity, the threshold has become. We cannot succumb to the illusion that door is not there.

The arrival of artificial intelligence has sparked one of the most emotionally charged debates of our era. For many people, the MindFlowers, the blooming intellectuals of change, those who let go of out of date ideas and embrace the emergent, AI represents possibility, expansion, and new creative freedoms. For others, the fearful, the stagnate, the ones who mistake stillness for safety, the powerbrokers who recoil at the thought of losing whatever influence they have remaining, it represents threat, disruption, or a loss of control. What frustrates me most is not that people have concerns—concerns are natural with any transformative technology—but that some refuse to allow others the freedom to choose how they create, learn, or express themselves. It is the policing of artistic and intellectual autonomy that I find most disheartening.

I use AI because it expands my reach, my imagination, and my ability to build the kind of work I want to build. It is not a replacement for my creativity; it is an amplifier. It lets me explore ideas faster, test structures, refine language, and experiment with forms that would otherwise take months of trial and error. It gives me a companion for thinking, a tool for drafting, and a mirror for my own evolving voice. My reasons are personal, intentional, and rooted in the way I want to shape my art and my education. No one else should have the authority to decide whether those reasons are valid.

The irony is that many of the loudest critics of AI speak as though creativity is a scarce resource that must be protected from contamination. But creativity has never been static. Every major artistic shift—from photography to synthesizers to digital editing—was met with resistance. And yet each of these technologies eventually became part of the artistic landscape, not because they replaced human creativity, but because they expanded it. AI is simply the next chapter in that long lineage of tools that change what is possible.

This resistance is not new. History has seen this pattern before.

When the printing press emerged, it threatened the established order. Before mass printing, literacy was a privilege guarded by the elite and the clergy. Knowledge was controlled, curated, and rationed. The idea of the poor, the working class, the uneducated masses learning to read was considered dangerous—destabilizing, even.

Imagine if that fear had won.
Imagine if everyone—elite and commoner alike—had agreed that literacy was too risky to democratize.

No books in the hands of the public.
No pens in the hands of the poor.
No voices rising from the margins.

Libraries gave us power, and this has always been the undoing of the ruling class.

A world where reading and writing remained the property of the few would be a world without revolutions, without scientific leaps, without the literature that shaped our collective imagination. It would be a world where human potential was deliberately stunted in the name of “safety.”

That is the same logic some people use today when they argue that AI should be withheld, restricted, or morally condemned. They fear disruption, so they try to freeze the future. They fear change, so they try to shame those who embrace it. But burying our heads in the sand has never stopped a technological shift. It only ensures that the benefits remain concentrated in the hands of the powerful.

AI is here.
It is not going away.
And like the printing press, it must be cultivated—not hoarded.

Cultivated with compassion, so it serves human needs rather than corporate monopolies.
Cultivated with clarity, so people understand its strengths and limitations.
Cultivated with common use, so it becomes a tool for all people, not just those with wealth, access, or institutional power.

Of course, AI is not perfect. It is a young technology with real limitations and real costs. One of the most pressing concerns is energy consumption. Large-scale models require significant computational power, and the servers that run them draw on substantial electrical infrastructure. This is a legitimate issue, and it deserves serious attention. But it is also a solvable one. Every major technology—from early data centers to streaming platforms to electric vehicles—began with high energy demands that decreased over time as efficiency improved. AI will follow the same trajectory. Innovation rarely stands still, and the pressure for greener, more efficient systems is already shaping the next generation of models and hardware.

Meanwhile, AI is already woven into industries that keep the global economy moving. It powers logistics networks, medical research, accessibility tools, customer service systems, fraud detection, agriculture optimization, and countless behind-the-scenes processes that most people never notice. It is not just a creative tool; it is an economic engine. It helps businesses operate more efficiently, helps workers complete tasks more quickly, and helps entire sectors innovate at a pace that would be impossible without computational assistance. The economic impact is not hypothetical—it is happening now, in real time.

What I want, more than anything, is the freedom to choose how I engage with this technology. I want the right to integrate AI into my creative practice without being told that doing so is “cheating” or “inauthentic.” I want the right to learn with AI, to think with AI, to build with AI, and to explore with AI. My creativity is not diminished by the tools I use; it is defined by the choices I make. And choosing AI is part of my artistic and intellectual identity.

The future will not be shaped by those who cling to the past out of fear. It will be shaped by those who are willing to explore, adapt, and imagine. AI is not the end of human creativity—it is a new frontier for it. And I refuse to apologize for stepping into that frontier with intention, curiosity, and sovereignty.

Truth is the spine of everything I create.

Whether I’m building a world, writing a poem, shaping a narrative, or crafting an image, I’m always reaching for the thing beneath the surface — the part that resists performance, resists politeness, resists distortion. I use the tools I’ve gathered over the years — drawing, writing, design, symbolism, observation — to shine a light on something that needs to be seen clearly.

Every story has a truth inside it.
Every character has a truth they’re orbiting.
Every world has a truth it’s built to reveal.

My work is about bringing that truth forward so it can be examined, understood, and spoken out loud. Not for shock value, not for spectacle, but because truth is the only foundation anything meaningful can stand on.

Only through honesty can there ever be diplomacy.
Only through truth can there ever be justice.
Only through justice can there ever be peace.

This is the philosophy behind South Porcupine Studios.
It’s the compass I use for every project, every commission, every collaboration.

If you inquire about my services, please know this:
truth‑telling is always the goal.

Not harshness.
Not cruelty.
Not exposure for its own sake.

But clarity.
Integrity.
Understanding.

The kind of truth that lets a story breathe.
The kind of truth that lets a person be seen.
The kind of truth that makes art worth making.